


Entrench

by pallidiflora



Series: Accomplice [1]
Category: Persona 4
Genre: Bad Ending, M/M, Overheard Sex, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidiflora/pseuds/pallidiflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Souji arrives three days before New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entrench

**Author's Note:**

> Set after P4: Golden's accomplice ending.

 

 

**1.**

  
Souji arrives three days before New Year's Eve, a Thursday; his uncle doesn't pick him up until late, after work. He hadn't had to plead much with his parents—they had given him the cursory _are-you-sure-you-wouldn't-rather-celebrate-here_ , but beyond that didn't protest much. It takes more than that to hurt their feelings, for which he's mostly grateful.

They come home to Nanako sitting at one end of the kotatsu, eating strawberry shortcake from Junes, as though he'd never left; on the other side, though, sits Adachi, scraping whipped cream and strawberry glaze off of his plate.

Before Nanako comes flying at him Adachi smiles—guileless, vacuous. He looks more like an overgrown child than ever; there is a red smear, mashed strawberry, on his chin.

"Hey," Adachi says, and wipes his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

Souji thought he would feel more than this, but looking at him just makes him feel scooped-out, neatly and painlessly, as with a spoon. He hadn't expected to see him so soon, he hasn't spoken to him in nearly a year; despite his threat, Adachi never called.

Nanako presses her face into his middle. "You're really gonna be here for a whole week? You mean it?"

"You bet."

Nanako goes to clear the plates, she offers him a slice of cake, and Adachi says, "so how's it goin'?"

No one else hears the threat in it.

* * *

Nanako goes to bed early, she still has school the next morning. Meanwhile Adachi and Dojima stay up drinking sake at Adachi's insistence; they have to get up the next morning too, but Adachi says _come on sir it'll be fine, besides we've gotta practice for New Year's don't we?_ It doesn't take much convincing. Souji sits with them, him on the floor and the two of them on the couch, and they talk with a drama playing on TV in the background.

If there is enough white noise, he thinks, he can remain distracted.

At 10 he goes to bed, with the excuse that the travel has worn him out. They wave him goodnight, as he climbs the stairs Adachi is opening their third bottle, Dojima changes the channel to golf. In his room he undresses himself robotically, and puts on his pajamas that still smell of his parents' house; he climbs into his futon, and stares up at the ceiling, focusing on the stripe of bluish light that comes in through the gap in his curtains.

Even now he's not quite sure why he did it. Possibly he just wanted things to stay the same, though of course they haven't. He wasn't thinking straight, that's what he concludes, because if he had been how could he have ever thought that? It's like he sees the centre of him now, a hard nugget, through layers of something murky yet translucent—jelly, or something equally sweet.

He must have done it for Dojima, he realizes, hearing their indistinct voices burbling up from the first floor. If that at least has remained the same then he supposes it was worth it.

* * *

The next morning Souji staggers out into the hall at 6 AM, gummy-eyed, barely awake but needing to pee, groping along the wall for the handle of the bathroom door. The door is already closed, though, which is odd—Nanako doesn't get up this early, usually, his uncle would have gotten in and out already. From inside comes the sound of water running, a blurry gurgle that makes him have to pee worse than ever; he waits against the wall for the door to open. A minute later, light, nearly blinding, slices into the hallway.

"Mornin', Souji-kun."

Adachi waves as he steps out of the bathroom; his hair is still damp, his cheeks are bleeding here and there, white flecks of shaving cream cling near his mouth and ears. He smells strongly of aftershave—a herbal, utility sort of scent—it hasn't been sweated off yet, it hovers around him like a fog.

"Oh," Souji says. "Hey." He almost blurts out _what're you doing here?_ but it occurs to him that might be a mistake. Got too drunk, missed the last bus and passed out on the couch, probably—this is a reasonable thing to assume, and safe.

Before bounding down the stairs, Adachi gives him a look, nothing too strange but still out of place: it almost looks like pride. From the lower level he can hear Dojima throwing a towel at him, a soft _flump_ , saying "wipe your face off, you can't go out looking like that. I'll pick breakfast up on the way, we're gonna be late because of you."

"Sorry, sir."

Souji returns to his room to grab his toothbrush from his overnight bag; he is fully awake now, he can always nap later. When he's finished he goes to insert it in the toothbrush holder on the counter, but stops. There's a red toothbrush there that he hadn't noticed before, frayed, bristles yellowing; it sits in between Nanako's pink one, which hasn't changed since last time, she refuses to get rid of it, and Dojima's, a dark blue, new but the same style as before.

It hits him like a wave of nausea—uncontrollable, filling his mouth with saliva. The toothbrush is Adachi's. He opens the medicine cabinet, and sitting there is a bottle, cheap brown plastic, of Adachi's aftershave, half-empty next to his uncle's favourite brand. There is no mistaking it, his uncle has only ever bought the same thing, he uses it until it runs out.

He waits until Adachi and his uncle have left, squabbling on the way out, and pads down the stairs. The couch has no bedding on it, no extra pillows, nothing to suggest someone has slept on it. There is a mug on the counter though, one he has never seen before, with the Junes logo stamped on the front and worn from washing; dregs of milky-sweet coffee make a ring at the bottom.

Slowly, as though compelled, he makes his way back upstairs, and, with sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his back, he creeps toward his uncle's bedroom. The door stays closed most days, he has only seen the briefest of glimpses inside, to open it and peer in would be to violate an unspoken trust. He grabs the handle though, and twists it open.

Inside is the faint cologne smell his uncle always has, and something musky, a hair-like scent—he doesn't air his room out enough, that's how they get when you don't. It's spartan, as he remembers, with only a few of Nanako's drawings tacked to the walls: girls in skirts, geometrical houses, suns made of macaroni. His eyes are drawn to the futon, though, monolithic and white in the centre of the room; it's rumpled, covers pulled back from both sides, two pillows flat and dented. On the bedside table is a torn square of foil, obvious as a flag on a hill, claiming territory.

There are vestiges of Adachi scattered throughout the house, as though he's dropping parts of himself, shedding objects like a snake sheds skin.

* * *

Dojima returns home alone, with a stack of Junes bento boxes balanced in one arm.

"I hope you two haven't eaten yet," he says to Souji and Nanako, who are huddled under the kotatsu making pipe cleaner figures.

They haven't, so they spread the meal out across the kotatsu, dig some green tea sodas out of the fridge, and eat. Afterward they watch TV, just like old times, and Souji tries to decide when to say something.

He puts Nanako to sleep, and returns downstairs. Dojima is sitting at the kitchen table in a pool of yellowish light, doing paperwork and drinking coffee, noting things here and there in pencil, grimacing, nodding to himself. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing jarring, no flashing neon signs.

Souji leans against the cabinet on the far wall, the wall with the calendar on it; this one is a different one than he used to mark the days off on, of course, their explorations in the TV world noted with red crosses, simple, final.

He takes a breath and says, "Does Nanako know?"

"About what?" Dojima's not really listening.

"About..." He deliberates. Best just to be honest, best just to get it over with. "You and Adachi."

Dojima sucks his lips in against his teeth, he taps his pencil against the table. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Souji's gut flexes, muscles contracting. If only he had said _me and Adachi, that's ridiculous, are you sure you didn't hit your head, go upstairs and go to sleep and stop talking crazy._ Something like that, like a bucket of cold water, putting his imagination to rest at last. Instead it might as well have been an admission of guilt, it might as well have been a written statement. "No, I think you do. He stayed over last night, and... he didn't sleep on the couch, did he?"

"How the hell did you know that? What, did you look in my room or something?"

Souji says nothing, just keeps his arms folded.

Dojima lets this go, he runs his fingers through his hair, and then across his chin, stubble rasping. "...Look, it's not anything, ok?"

"Then why is his stuff all over the house?"

"Why're you grilling me about this? In case you forgot, I happen to be forty-three goddamn years old, and the last thing I need is a high-school kid breathing down my neck about what _should_ be my own business!" Dojima returns to his paperwork, jaw clenched, staring blindly.

"I'm sorry," Souji says finally, and returns to his room.

* * *

Dojima seems to have forgotten about the night before, for what it's worth. It's New Year's Eve, and he and Adachi have some police force event to attend—probably getting shitfaced at an izakaya. Adachi has been here for a few hours already, saying it was easier to bus to Dojima's and then be driven.

He sits in the living room with the curtains drawn, watching a game show and drinking a beer. He has a bowl of kaki-peanuts balanced on one knee—the bowl has a flower pattern around the rim, yellow, probably of aunt Chisato's choosing—and he eats them one after the other, placing them in his mouth without looking at them. There's an idol group on the show; his expression turns appreciative when they begin to sing, the camera panning over their legs. He taps his fingers in time with the song, humming a little; he knows it, he must be a fan.

Souji clatters around in the kitchen, making soba for dinner, chopping scallions and vegetables, mixing tempura batter. His friends are coming over in a few hours; if he can just concentrate on that he won't do anything stupid, he tells himself, he won't make it worse.

He thinks about Dojima though, stolid, earnest, allowing himself to fall at last for his poor bumbling co-worker against his better judgement, probably taking even himself by surprise. He thinks about Dojima making coffee for the two of them in the mornings, reading different sections of the newspaper, sharing a cigarette on the porch.

Dojima would think Adachi—simple-minded, too incompetent to tie his own shoes—was the vulnerable one.

When his uncle is upstairs putting on his best dress shirt and slacks and Nanako is playing in her room, Souji scrapes a kitchen chair toward himself and sits on it backwards, his legs on either side of the backrest, facing Adachi. If he is going to make it worse hopefully it will only be for himself—he can handle it, he likes to think.

"Why are you doing this?" he says lowly, without preamble.

"Doing what?" Adachi doesn't look away from the TV. The camera is on their faces now, they smile, prominent teeth gleaming. They look powdered as if with rice flour, pink and sweatless.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"What does it matter why I do anything? What difference does it make?" He sounds irritated, as though Souji's interrupting something important.

"Are you just doing it to screw with me?"

Adachi looks at him now, face bland as white dough. "Wow, aren't _you_ self-centred?" He reaches down between his feet for his beer and takes a swig. "I know you like to think it does, but the world doesn't revolve around you _all_ the time."

"You have everything you want already. Can't you just leave him alone?" It comes out sounding too much like a plea, schoolchild-like, but then again, that's what it is.

Adachi gazes at him, sizing him up, thoughtful almost, like someone looking at appliances in a magazine ad.

"So you want me to break his poor heart? Man, you're colder than I thought—and that's saying something." He turns his attention back to the TV, stuffing a whole handful of kaki-peanut mix in his mouth; the conversation is over. The idols are singing a different song now, they've changed their outfits, shiny plastic and high socks. Adachi mouths along as he chews, the peanuts squeak between his teeth.

Dojima hobbles into the room, struggling to knot his tie, Nanako follows him carrying his jacket. "What're you doin'? C'mon, we gotta get going."

Adachi gets up and his foot catches on his beer can, it tumbles over onto the tatami before he can catch it; he grabs for it, he holds it up dripping, it wets his hands and socks.

"Dammit—sorry—"

"Don't worry, I'll clean it up—you have to go, right?" Nanako says, and rushes to get paper towels.

"Adachi, I swear to god." He doesn't have the time to be irritated, merely exasperated. Or is it something else, is there a hint of doting creeping in, the permissive husband? _Just-what-are-we-going-to-do-with-you?_ , pinching a cheek, stroking the hair back from the forehead. Souji doesn't want to think about it.

As he throws his jacket over his shoulder he says, "I'm gonna need you to look after the house tonight—you're having your friends over, right? Don't keep the girls over _too_ late—and don't let Nanako stay up too long after midnight. Anyway, I'll see you later."

"Bye, kid, happy new year," Adachi says, stuffing a foot into a shoe, and claps a hand on Souji's shoulder, too warm, too familiar. He notices later the faint odour of beer on his shirtsleeve, lingering, a sticky smell.

* * *

When everyone has left, well past 2 AM despite Dojima's warnings, Souji finally crawls into bed; his uncle hasn't yet returned. He falls asleep easily enough, assuming Dojima is spending the night elsewhere so he won't have to drive.

At 4 AM according to his phone he wakes again, not for any particular reason. He gets up to pee, figuring it prudent; his mouth is cottony, too, so he tiptoes down the silent dark hall, intending to get a glass of water. When he gets to the landing, though, he can see a glow coming from the first floor, bleaching the hollows at the bottom of the stairs; careful not to make any noise, he descends halfway.

The light comes from the muted TV, flickering, like sunlight on fish, the living room underwater, submerged. Dojima's hands are on Adachi's spread knees, he kneels between them over the faint beer-stain, invisible in the darkness. His head moves; Adachi's hands, fish-white in the watery light, are on his shoulders, spurring him on; faintly he can hear the sound of breath hitching, soft sucking noises. He stands there for a moment, paralyzed, and, as if sensing him, Adachi opens his eyes, they stare at each other.

Before Souji can turn around to return upstairs, Adachi, still watching him, arches up off the couch, gripping Dojima's hair, and moans, thin but guttural.

* * *

The rest of the week passes quickly; he spends most of it with his friends—at their houses, at the inn, at Junes with Nanako. He prefers not to be in the house; at any rate seeing his friends was ostensibly what he came for, so it doesn't seem too out of place.

Unlike when he arrived, his uncle drops him off at the station early in the morning, and Nanako accompanies them.

"Promise you'll visit again really soon, ok?" she says, squeezing him tight.

"I will."

 

  
**2.**

He gets a call from Adachi in mid-March—the first time ever—and despite himself he picks up.

"Hey, I just wanted to call and tell you I'm takin' over your old room."

He isn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't this. "What are you talking about?"

"Dojima-san said it was dumb for me to be paying rent when I'm over there so often anyway, so he said I should take your old bedroom. Besides, he said it gets a little lonely with just him and Nanako-chan rattling around in there." Adachi pauses, Souji can hear the laughter creeping into his voice. "I hope that's alright with you...?" The sentence sounds unfinished, like he intended to tack something on the end: _Your Majesty_ , maybe. The effect is the same either way: acid, falsely deferential.

Of course it isn't alright. He wants to throw things, scream at him _if you ever go near my family again I'll kill you myself you just watch me_ ; he instead takes in a lungful of air, searing, and lets it out.

"Fine," he says. "It's not my room anymore anyway."

 

  
**3.**

He returns over summer vacation, when he has time again; the cicadas are out in full force, droning incessantly. At the station Dojima waits for him leaning against a patrol car, smoking a cigarette; Adachi stands beside him, smoking and leaning, twinning him.

"Long time no see," Dojima says. He crushes his cigarette underfoot, and hauls Souji's suitcase into the back seat.

On the ride home, Adachi drives, saying he doesn't get enough opportunity; he smiles at Souji in the mirror—only a slight lifting at the corners of his mouth, but noticeable if you're looking for it. Dojima is not looking; he stares out the window at the rolling hills, more than familiar scenery by now.

"Why don't you sleep in my room?" Adachi says. "I can crash on the couch, I don't mind."

Rubbing salt in the wound, that must be what this is. It must be a punishment.

His room—Adachi's room—looks barely lived in, except for the futon, the cover of which is peeled away, too neatly, at the edge; pretense, to suggest being slept-in. The entire thing is a pretense, though for whom he's not sure: most probably Nanako, but it could also be for Dojima's sake as well. As long as he continues to separate things, to split hairs finer, he can pretend things haven't gotten as far as they have. He embraces it, too, though, in equal measure—otherwise it would've stopped with Adachi's dishes in his sink.

* * *

That night he hears them through the walls: Adachi's high keening _Dojima-san, please, oh god_ and finally Dojima's breathless _shh, shh, for god's sake keep your voice down_ , sounding indulgent, fond even. He doesn't want to hear this, he wants to stuff his fingers in his ears; at the same time, when he hears Adachi's ragged uneven groan as he comes, he can't help but listen and wonder: how much of this is he faking?

He wishes he had, though, when afterwards he hears his uncle's gasp, almost too quiet to be heard— _"Adachi,"_ painful, shameful, shocking in its nakedness.


End file.
